Goodnight Gregory, Good Morning Mycroft
by dauntlesszemrys
Summary: This is a Mystrade fic. Greg Lestrade answers a phone call for Sherlock and winds up talking to none other than Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elusive elder brother. How will their strange partnership play out?
1. Chapter 1

Gregory Lestrade was at his very last nerve with Sherlock. The man had behaved abhorrently, shouting sarcastic abuse to the entire team and calling him an idiot every other sentence. Why couldn't John come back to London from his medical conference? Why did couldn't he have taken Sherlock with him at least?" The day started as normal as possible, some murderer had killed a woman and cut up her body to hide it better in the ceiling. He called Sherlock in, who dramatically pacing around the scene. Greg had tried to listen, he really had; but he was tired from a late night of arguing with his ex-wife over divorce papers. Though it wasn't as if Sherlock gave any cares to what someone else was going through or how they felt. The day ended with Sherlock throwing his mobile at Greg's head and storming away from the case, still unsolved.

He hated feeling stupid and useless. No matter what Sherlock bloody Holmes said, he wasn't stupid. He did, in fact, have the ability to think for himself most of the time and he had solved a great many cases without Sherlock's help. The mountain of paperwork on his desk disagreed and he glared at it, trying to make sense out of any of the words on the black and white paper. His eyes jumped in and out of hazy focus and he laid his head down on his desk to avoid the oncoming headache.

Sherlock's mobile rung in the top drawer of his desk loudly and Greg groaned, sitting up, extracting the mobile, answering it, and putting it to his ear.

"Sherlock is not available at the moment, because he's decided to act like a little bitch. If you need him for something, feel free to meet him at 221b Baker Street where you can promptly murder him and get off scott free of charges." Lestrade said, quite enjoying the ability to call Sherlock a little bitch. He almost hoped that Sherlock was the one calling his own mobile. The DI absent mindedly wondered what Sherlock would do to him, talking about the other man so rudely? Lestrade mentally signed his certificate of death and listened for a response.

"I was aware my brother could be quite a pain, but I wasn't quite expecting a proposition for his murder." A strange voice replied through the phone. Lestrade pulled the phone away from his ear for a minute to look at the number. It was a blocked caller.

"I am so sor- wait brother?"

"Yes I'm afraid so. Mycroft Holmes. Does it not say so?" the man, Mycroft, asked. Though, he didn't seem curious as much as he seemed terribly amused.

"The caller is blocked," Lestrade said sheepishly. Sherlock had never even mentioned a man named Mycroft, much less a man named Mycroft who happened to be his brother. All of the man's behavior pointed to him being an only child. Mycroft made a noise of aggravation.

"Well I'm not sure I expected any different from my dear brother. Surely in his mind I am his greatest foe. May I venture to assume I am now speaking with Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard?" Mycroft said casually.

"Um yeah. Yes… this is… yes I'm Greg Lestrade." He sputtered out. Damn him and his seeming inability to form coherent complete sentences. Mycroft sounded, well, he sounded as mysterious as his brother and infinitely able to match Sherlock's intellect. ;

"Charmed, I assure you. Now, Detective Inspector how is it that you came upon my dearest brother's mobile?" Mycroft asked kindly. He sounded positively amused with the entire world, as if he was so far above the rest of the mundane population, though not quite with the high level of arrogance Sherlock held.

"He chucked it at my head and never asked for it back. I guessed he would come back for it eventually so I held onto it." Lestrade explained. He rubbed his tired eyes with the palm of his hand.

"Detective Inspector you sound pitifully exhausted." Mycroft commented with the smallest hint of concern. Why would this man he barely knew be concerned about him?

"Well I am, so thank you for… um… noticing. Do you mind if I say that you aren't much like your brother at all Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, leaning in on his elbow.

"Not at all Detective Inspector; I take that as a compliment in the highest." Mycroft said. Lestrade found himself wondering about the strange man on the other line yet again for the second time in the conversation. What did Mycroft look like? Was he strangely handsome like Sherlock or did he look more normal?

"Please just call me Greg," Lestrade said before he could stop himself.

"As you insist Gregory, you may call me Mycroft if you see fit," the man replied. Lestrade couldn't help but laugh at the man's perfectly polished and impeccable manners. Truly it was refreshing to speak with someone who respected proper social interaction, unlike a certain Consulting Detective.

"Well, Mycroft, I don't suppose you can tell me why you called Sherlock in the first place?" Lestrade asked, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Somehow, it all felt wildly forbidden; talking to Sherlock's previously unnoted brother on the man's own mobile and calling him by his first name. Mycroft chuckled as if he knew what Lestrade was thinking. Who was this ethereal man attached to the sexy, ghost-like voice on the other side of the call?

"Inquiry as to how he is doing. I don't suppose you could tell me Gregory?" Mycroft remarked softly. Greg smiled slyly, touching the corner of his mouth as he chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair. Just then, a black figure streaked through the office, heading straight for his office.

"I could, but in a few seconds you can ask him. He's just come back," Lestrade said. He should have felt weird, chatting with Sherlock's brother and flirting with a man he didn't even know. Was that what they had been doing? Were they flirting at voices on a phone? Surprisingly, he didn't feel awkward as he should have. He felt elated and hot, the collar of his shirt rubbing up against the back of his burning neck.

"Lestrade I need my ph- who are you talking to?" Sherlock burst in, not caring to knock. Lestrade smiled at Sherlock and heard Mycroft's voice come over the phone.

"I'll be in contact Gregory. Goodbye," he said, and the call ended. Lestrade turned off the phone and handed it over to the unbearable detective, edging on testy by the second.

"Nobody. Maybe you should think about throwing things at people's heads next time. They might not be so nice as to hold on to it as I have," Lestrade commented. Sherlock went through his phone, probably to the recent calls and growled in frustration.

"Who was it Lestrade? Who called?" Sherlock asked, advancing on Greg's desk. Greg just twirled a pen with his forefinger and thumb, continuing to smile in what was sure an extremely annoying fashion. Sherlock grit his teeth and left without another word. Lestrade's own mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket and he pulled it out a little more enthusiastic than necessary.

_Hello Gregory –MH_

It was an unassuming text message, but Lestrade was already in a daze from the conversation for his inactive brain to ask too many questions about how in the hell Mycroft Holmes managed to get his number. It shouldn't have made the pit of his stomach to drop and his muscles twitch with shivers.

_I'm not even going to ask how you got my number. How are you?_

Greg texted back, unsure of what to say.

_Interesting small talk, Gregory; not the question I would have chosen but I will answer, despite the dullness of my life. I am very well. I wish to know more about you Detective Inspector. –MH_

Greg let out a heavy breath and flushed a deep crimson. For god's sakes he didn't even know what this man looked like so why were his words having such an effect on him? Lestrade forced himself to get a grip. He wasn't some teenage girl and despite his bisexuality, he hadn't felt anything for a man in great number of years. He was middle aged and decently settled with a failed marriage, living in a small two bedroom flat near New Scotland Yard. Despite Lestrade's shaking hands, he typed out the words on the small keys.

_I'm not anything special. You already know what I do and my name, but I don't know anything about you. What do you do?_

_I occupy a minor position in the British Government, hardly noteworthy. And certainly Gregory, you cannot possibly begin to downgrade yourself simply because my dear brother is blind to everyone but himself. You are indeed, very extraordinary. Any man willing to reprimand Sherlock is anything but ordinary. –MH_

Greg didn't know how to respond. However, it seemed his thumbs were ahead of his brain.

_Thank you. Never thought I would be called extraordinary by a Holmes._

_ I can assure I am no ordinary Holmes. I must depart for now, however I would love to continue this conversation. Evening Gregory –MH_

"Evening," Greg muttered to his phone as Sally knocked on the door to his office and stepped inside, the lights going off in the building.

"Sir, everyone is leaving for the day. Oi, what has you smiling like that?" She asked, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

"I… you know Sally I'm not quite sure. I'm not sure at all," Lestrade said giddily, giggling and standing up with his jacket slung over his arm. He raised both eyebrows and his arms came out in a comical pose, outstretched to the sky. "Night Ms. Donovan and have a wonderful evening," He called over his shoulder, skipping into the elevator and waving.

"Loonies, all of em," Sally muttered, heading for the stairs. Greg Lestrade clutched his phone in his hand as he made his way out of New Scotland yard and to his car, eager for the next text message to arrive.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg paced back and forth, treading a weary line in the carpet of his living room. The scene was laid out just so, a mobile left on a small oak wood table next to a cold cup of untouched black coffee, the screen bright an unchanging. The blankets and pillows are undisturbed, save for a small body print where the inhabitant rested for only a few moments trying to calm his nerves. The TV played in the background on some cheesy cop drama, ignored by the silver haired figure attempting to put a hole through the floor. Grocery bags arranged haphazardly on the heavily marked kitchen table in the crap kitchen of a crap two bedroom flat. The inhabitant, Greg Lestrade, reportedly died of fear to send a bloody text message to the one and only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes' brother and say hi because he was a complete and utter pussy with no balls to ask a bloke he barely knew out on a date just to hear that sinful voice again. He laughed at the hope that Anderson wouldn't be on forensics.

A little monologue played in his head, imagining what his phone would say if it could talk.

"Seriously just text him already, what's the worst that could happen? Oh don't give me that look mister; you're bisexual so stop acting so goddamn scandalized! Send the text and if he doesn't reciprocate, you'll have gotten it out of your system. You can add it to your library of mental porn and move on with your pathetic life! Oh wait," it rang out a tinkling of bells, his text alert. He couldn't remember the last time he had moved so fast in his life, save for the time he had almost crashed his motorcycle.

_Hello-MH_

Greg resisted the urge to squeal and collapse on the couch like a sixteen year old girl. He was a greying middle aged man for Christ's sake! What was he going to say? As far as Greg could gather, this guy was probably posh. Should he formulate some kind of smart sounding greeting? Well Mycroft had greeted him semi casually. Maybe he could just send a cool hi? Just to say hi back would be awkward, and maybe make Mycroft feel awkward. Oh dear god was he sweating over a damn text message? Why the hell was this making him all nervous and jittery? He hadn't even felt like this on his wedding day!

_You always busy?_

_I tend to have a busier schedule than most, but I make time for more important personal matters _

_No more MH?_

_It wasn't working for me; more of my little brother's habit than mine. I'd venture to say you added my contact about an hour ago, so there is no need to keep introducing myself. You are on the busy side as well Detective Inspector Lestrade. I read about you in the papers more often than not._

_Oh well… thanks, I suppose. That was a compliment wasn't it?_

_That was my intention Gregory. _

_Well that's good then. Right. Very good. _

_Feeling quite out of your depth detective?_

_Is it obvious?_

_Quite, but don't fret. You can rest assured that I can think of plenty interesting topics; music for instance._

_Love music! I played the guitar for years; still do on occasion when I'm not close to exhaustion. I used to play for hours before the tips of my fingers were completely raw. Do you play anything?_

_I, unfortunately, did not inherit the skill it takes to master a stringed instrument. However, I am an accomplished pianist. _

_I could see that from you_

_Why? _

_Well no offence but the piano is a rather classic thing to play and you seem… classy_

_No offence taken certainly, in fact I appreciate the compliment. It is rather difficult to play the Who on the piano without the classical training in me to feel a bit unruly._

_The Who? You're into the Who?_

_It's a guilty pleasure of mine, along with the Beatles of course._

_Guilty pleasure, eh? So the great Mycroft Holmes who occupies a minor position in the British government, yet talks as if he's busier than the queen herself has a guilty pleasure? _

_On occasion, I find the time. Besides, Liz isn't quite as busy as she likes to let on._

_Liz? You call the bloody queen of England LIZ? Her own husband probably calls her, her royal majesty! _

_As I said, a minor position in the British Government. _

_Was that witty sarcasm I detect?_

_I've always been told I'm the funny one._

_First he stops using his bloody initials in texts, he reveals he loves the Beatles, and finally he has a sense of humor? Somebody pinch me, I think there is a fairly human Holmes!_

_My brother may be intent on convincing everyone that he is above the standard of normal human, he is very much a man._

_Not surprised, although I think he's more of a child than a man_

_Quite right detective inspector! _

_An exclamation point! I think I've made improvement._

_You have indeed Gregory. Oh dear…_

_What?_

_I have a predicament…_

_And that is?_

_I need to start the workday, yet I want to sit here and talk to you more…_

Greg looked over his shoulder from the couch at the clock in the kitchen. It was 3 in the morning! He sat confused for a moment before texting his reply.

_It's three in the morning!_

_The government never sleeps dear inspector. As a lawman, you should know that better than most._

_I suppose…_

_Sleep Gregory, you need it. _

_Mycroft?_

_Yes Gregory? _

_Could I… that is could you go to dinner sometime maybe?_

_That would be enjoyable. I'll pick you up at 7 from the Yard. I know a perfect little spot. Goodnight Gregory._

Greg smiled at the bright little display screen and wished he could ignore his body's aches and pains screaming at him to sleep in his large comfortable bed down the hall. He typed one final message before plugging the phone into its charger and collapsing into the cotton sheets fully dressed, save for his belt and shoes. He slept soundly, unaware of a ginger haired politician sitting alone in front of a fire, smiling at his own screen and tapping the phone against his curved, plush, pale pink lips.

_Good morning Mycroft._


	3. Chapter 3

The day started out with an alarm ringing far too early, making Greg groan and roll over onto his side to cover his ears with a pillow. He had barely gotten any sleep and it made him want to have a lay in, completely ignoring the real world. However the real world included Mycroft Holmes. Greg smiled and sat up, the dress shirt uncomfortably crinkling in the crease of his elbow. He bolted out of bed, confused as to why he was fully dressed. Then, he remembered the conversation, and how late he had stayed up talking to Mycroft. He recalled the dinner invitation, the time, and the sweet good morning he had texted to Mycroft before collapsing on his bed.

Greg giggled and sat on the corner of his bed, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. He, a 40 year old man with a cheating ex-wife, had a date with another bloke. It was a situation that belonged in one of those romantic comedies that Greg definitely DIDN'T watch when he was home alone on the weekend.

"I've got a date," he said to himself. Clapping his hands, he rushed out of bed and stripped out of his clothes on the way to the crap bathroom of his crap flat. He smiled while he turned the water on, turning it too cold so it would come out warm. "I Gregory Lestrade have a date," he said into the slowly fogging mirror. The air got warm and he threw off his pants to step under the warm spray. "I'm going on a date with Mycroft Holmes," Greg declared to absolutely no one.

For the first time in forever, Greg started to sing again. In Uni, he was part of a band and consequentially was stuck with the job of songwriter, lyric writer, singer, and guitar player. Mostly, he was the entire band.

"Close your eyes, give me your hand, Darlin'. Do you feel my heart beating, do you understand? Do you feel the same? Am I only dreaming? Is this burning, an eternal flame? I believe it's meant to be, darling," Greg sang out, washing through his silver hair. He wished he knew what Mycroft looked like, and then maybe he could imagine the scene a little better in his head; a candlelit table, his guitar in his lap and singing Eternal Flame by the Bangles. Somehow, the rocker inside him couldn't be shamed by the cheesy 80's love song. Growing up in the 80's wasn't so bad after all.

He sang till the water ran cold, making him shiver out onto the mat and wrapping a towel around his waist. His hand met the surface of the mirror and he wiped away a circle big enough to see his face in.

"Say you, Say me. Say it for always that's the way it should be. Say you, say me. Say it together, Naturally," Greg serenaded into a comb, slicking back his hair. He shaved, pat on the most expensive aftershave and cologne he owned, and made faces in the mirror. Wiggling his eyebrows one at a time, he sucked in his cheeks and gave his reflection the blue steel. Shame, an emotion he should have felt for being a total and utter tit, did not come.

His closet was destroyed by the time he was finished dressing. Being a man of simple and practical tastes, he had never given much thought to his wardrobe over a simple suit and a solid colored shirt. He drew out his best black slacks, the ones he saved for promotion days, and a deep blue button up he hadn't gotten the chance to ever wear. It was dark, but it brought out the silver and made his skin look good. With one final pose in the mirror and a desperate grab at his phone to put in the inner pocket, he slipped into his coat. Then, walked out of his flat, got into his car, and turned the radio up to the highest decibel he could tolerate.

"When the night, has come; and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see. No I won't, be afraid, no I won't be afraid. Just as long, as you stand, stand by me!" He sang along, pulling into the parking lot. Donovan also pulled into her spot and got out with two coffees in hand, one for him and one for her just like every morning. She was a nice person, underneath her constant aggressiveness. He waved joyfully and bound out of the now parked car, very unlike himself. Spry, a word used by the older set, was exactly how he felt. Donovan stared at him incredulously as he claimed his coffee and tipping his head to her.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" He called. "So darlin' darlin' stand by me. Oooh stand, by me. Oh, stand, stand by me. Stand by me. If the sky, that we look upon, should tumble and fall, or the mountain should crumble to the sea; I won't cry, I won't cry. No I won't shed a tear. Just as long as you stand, stand by me," He sang as he walked up the stairs and directly to his office.

The day was long, but Greg couldn't stop smiling. Sherlock had come around about noon with John in tow to tell him how the case was solved and Greg happily wrote it all down, ignoring the little jabs Sherlock made at his intelligence. Realizing he was having no luck, Sherlock groused away to pick on someone else, most likely Anderson. John looked around the office.

"Am I missing something?" John asked jokingly.

"Whaddya mean?" Greg replied with a wide smile and a relaxed body posture.

"You! You just seem so incredibly happy for no apparent reason and I want to know why! Also, you do know that Sherlock was insulting you, correct?" John said skeptically.

"Can't I be happy without everyone thinking I'm off my rocker? I feel the best I have in ages and Sherlock's petty snark is not going to ruin that! You should probably go find him, he and Anderson are going at it again I think," Greg mentioned at the sound of rising voices.

"Yeah okay then Greg. See you soon, I hope. Not sure I can take another of Sherlock's moods for as long as I did last time," John said as he walked out, his voice joining the others.

_ Hope you have some time to talk_

Greg texted, being the brave one and texting first. He glued his eyes to the little screen, watching as a cloud indicated a reply was being typed.

_ Always for you Gregory. I'm sure the Spanish Prime Minister won't mind if tea was served early _

_ A smiley? _

_ Thought it was appropriate, as I am indeed smiling_

_ It's cute _

Greg laughed to himself. Mycroft sent a smiley face like a teenage girl would to her boyfriend, and then he had called the other man cute and sent his own smiley face. It should have been weird and surprisingly Greg found he didn't mind.

_The smiley or me?_

_ Definitely you._

_ Ah. Well I've never been called cute in my life, save for mummy pouring over childhood photographs_

_ Please say some are of Sherlock_

_ Oh I assure you there are plenty. I do believe I have one of Sherlock in his pirate outfit…_

_ That's hysterical! It'd make for great leverage the next time he withholds evidence_

_ I do believe I like you more by the second Gregory Lestrade. _

He breathed out, thanking any god that would listen that he wasn't in front of another person. His face was hot in the most pleasant of ways, making his insides fuzzy.

Time ticked by like a snail, even the seconds seemed to stretch forever. 6:01, 6:02, Greg just watched the minute hand go by the little tick marks one by one. Absently, he drummed his pencil of the desk surface, timing it to the rhythm of the clock.

"Boss? Boss! Lestrade!" Donovan snapped in front of his face. Jolting, he woke from his trance and zeroed in on the time again; 6:55.

"Yes Sally?" Greg replied happily, eager for her to finish so he could go. Only five- four- minutes to go until Mycroft picked him up for their date. Then he would get to see Mycroft's no doubt gorgeous face and hear his dangerously sinful voice and…

"Lestrade! I asked what was up with you! Jesus," She rolled her eyes at him.

_Waiting _Mycroft texted. Greg all but leaped out from behind his desk and put on his coat.

"Sorry sally, I'd love to stay in chat but, I've gotta date." He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Fluidly, he stepped past her and bolted for the stairs, whistling to himself.

"A date? With whom?" sally cried after him in surprise. Greg ignored her and didn't answer.

_Coming _Greg texted in reply.


	4. Author's Note 1

**A/N **

**This next chapter is a little insert of Mycroft's POV BEFORE he leaves to pick up our dear desirable DI from the yard! I just don't want any confusion! Thanks to everyone who has left reviews, I love you all. I also love my wife, but she doesn't ship Mystrade (oh well, still love her) Till next time! **

**-Z. Emrys**


	5. Chapter 4

He stared at the wall with his fingers poised over the keys of his cell phone. Everything was a complete mess, scattered all over the floor of the large room. Anxiety threatened his peace of mind, settling over him like a cloud of dark gloom. A small detail had the potential to ruin everything; so trivial yet possessed so much weight. The number dialed and he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Anthea, I am in need of your assistance. Come at once, it is of the utmost importance." He terminated the call and waited patiently, picking up the previous objects in both hands and resting the phone on the flat surface of the fainting couch. The door slammed below him not four minutes later and the frantic click of heels on wood indicated her ascent upwards.

"Sir?" She called in a poorly covered up panic.

"In here Anthea," Mycroft answered her shouts calmly. She tore into the bedroom, her mobile clutched in her right palm. The piles made it difficult, but she did end up traveling the last few feet to Mycroft's immediate area.

"What's happened? What's wrong?" she urged as cool as possible.

"Anthea I don't believe I have ever faced something so completely frightening in all of my life," He said gravely and turned around to face her. "What tie will match perfectly? I need to impress Gregory." He asked with an anxious smile, the ties hanging loosely over his fingers. Anthea flat out scowled at the politician and Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in questioning.

"You will help me, won't you?" Mycroft asked, detesting the way the word help rolled off his tongue. Nonetheless, he knew when to take help as it was needed; unlike his brother. Anthea swayed forward and snatched the ties, and then tossed them over her shoulder.

"Sir I thought something of ACTUAL importance required the use of my time NOT THIS!" She grit out through clenched teeth.

"Since I'm here, I might as well say that everything about this is completely and utterly wrong; the tan for an evening dinner? Absolutely not. No you want something more sophisticated and dark, the tan is far too daytime tea. The pinstripe navy Giorgio Armani with a white oxford and light grey silk tie, the one with the sky blue diamonds and threading in it." Anthea said as she bustled around, gathering the required elements of the suit and placing them on Mycroft's arms.

"Oh and you will have to wear your special silk pants to give you an added edge. Plus it's nice… just in case…" She winked. His mouth practically fell open and his eyes went wide, red spreading through his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"Anthea please!" he cried, scandalized. However, he shamefully admitted to himself the thought was very nice indeed.

"Oh come on! Sir, Mr. Holmes (_dareIsaythis_) live a little." She gave him a small smile and departed to save his pretty pants from bunching at the presence of a female in his most vulnerable state. Mostly, he would, undoubtedly, throw her out because Mycroft Holmes was shy.


	6. Chapter 5

The car idled in the car park near the front door. A ginger haired man rested against the sleek body, smoking a cigarette and holding an umbrella to the ground like a cane or walking stick. He was quite handsome, way to pretty for a man. He had plump pink lips and sparkling blue eyes underneath well groomed brows. His skin was clear and radiant and perfectly pale. He wore a navy suit with a waistcoat and a silky tie, the dark cool colors making the milky complexion glow under the last lights of day. The ginger noticed him at last and smiled, blowing the smoke out then flicking the fag away with long fingers.

"Gregory, precisely on time… I do so like a man on time," he said. The ginger was definitely Mycroft, there was no way it could be anyone else (intelligent deduction that Lestrade) No other person had a voice so silky and dangerously sinful. He was polite and held himself with impeccable manners, yet underneath was something dark and deep.

"Mycroft, you, ah, umm, you look… Jesus," Greg stuttered, not knowing how to finish. He wasn't good with words outside of music and didn't know how to explain. Could he use the word hot?

"Absolutely gorgeous." He finished at last, nodding his head and smiling, as if to affirm to himself that those were, in fact, the words that he had decided upon.

"As do you. Blue, I believe, is our color. Shall we?" Mycroft held the door open and Lestrade climbed inside the luxurious town car, wishing for all the world that he was more graceful.

"So where are we going?" Greg asked once the car started. Mycroft, as graceful as his little brother, sat across from him, his legs crossed delicately. Mycroft was poised and posh, too perfect to be real. Greg just about pinched himself to make absolutely certain that this wasn't a wonderful dream.

"A little spot midtown. They carry a certain vintage of wine that I love. Gregory," Mycroft said. The way the inflections around his own name sent shivers down Greg's spine.

"Mycroft?"

"I should have you know that I'm not very good at this; dating, relationships, and the like. We Holmes' are a rare breed of human and our emotions are not as easily accessible to us as the rest of the population…" Mycroft stated quickly, as if delivering a speech. Greg supposed Mycroft was a very tightly regimented and in control type of person; he supposed he liked that. It wasn't as though Greg himself was a very in control person, all you had to look at was the status of his crap flat and of his life thus far. They reached an odd sort of homeostasis together. Somehow, knowing he was the braver one, Greg took the plunge and laid his hand on the other man's knee, squeezing it softly. Mycroft stiffened and stopped talking, but made no move to remove Greg's hand. His skin was hot beneath the navy trouser, like the fabric was keeping all the burning emotions at bay. He stared at into Mycroft's blue eyes, all ice and snow, and watched them soften under his chocolate brown ones. The ice melted and Mycroft placed his soft hand over top of Greg's scarred one.

"We've reached our destination Mr. Holmes; Detective Inspector," the driver said, ruining the moment. Lestrade withdrew his hand before Mycroft could shove it away and huffed out.

"Ah, thank you Timothy," Mycroft said, sighing. He reluctantly got out of the car to and held open the door for Greg, as he had done at the yard.

It was a nice restaurant; fancy yet not ultra-posh. Greg took another icy hot plunge into uncharted waters and slipped an arm around Mycroft, resting on the small of his back. Mycroft leaned into the embrace and, probably for the first time in his life, allowed someone else to lead him.

"Table under Holmes if you please," Mycroft said. The snobbish host nodded and chauffeured them to a private out of the way table. Greg looked around him at the patrons and frowned, suddenly getting the notion that he didn't belong here with his scuffed shoes and wrinkled trousers, plus the absence of a tie. He rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat as they sat in their chairs.

"Don't be nervous Gregory, you are twice as stunning as any man here," Mycroft said gently. Greg smiled and shook his leg under the table.

"I… um… I'm not nervous. Just, a tad bit out of sorts I suppose. Don't I sort of stick out in a place like this?" Greg tried to calm his nerves.

"Absolutely not! As I said before, you are absolutely stunning. However, if you feel uncomfortable we can…" Mycroft began, betraying his own special brand of anxiety.

"Myc, it's alright, I swear, this is perfect. It's just that you're this whole other entity on another planet of class and power. I'm just the DI, the guy who does the dirty work to put the bad guys away for a long time. But you, good lord, you're tailored to perfection." Greg said. Mycroft looked down for a moment before returning to the conversation.

"Well I suppose we don't like to dirty our hands do we? Prefer not to touch the filth of the society we damn with our words and constant discussion. I admire what you do Gregory, the field work. However, you will respect that I admire that work from afar with a cup of tea in hand," Mycroft smiled wistfully at his own joke and Greg burst into quiet laughter.

"I can only imagine you sitting in front of a laptop with a cuppa on your lap," Greg said through little fits of giggles. Now Mycroft was laughing quietly. It was a rare sort of sound, only a few seconds in length and high in pitch. He wanted to hear it again and again, and be the reason behind it.

"Quite comical I should say." Mycroft said lightly. For once, the words weren't weighed down by manners or pleasantries.

"Mycroft I have a question. How did you know it was me on the phone for Sherlock?" Greg asked curiously. Mycroft swallowed and leaned forward on his hands.

"I've watched a great many of your interviews on the telly, and somewhere along the way I managed to memorize the sound of your voice," he tried to play it off casually, but Greg leaned back and ran his fingers around his smiling lips.

"You thought I was dishy then; on the telly? Mycroft Holmes do you have a crush on me?" Greg grinned wide, knowing he had won. Mycroft blushed a deep shade of red, staring at his plate.

"The more I observed, the more I found you to be a most exceptional person. To put it in more ordinary terms; yes, I have a crush on you Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft replied. The word crush sounded exceptionally odd, like a trashy rap song coming from a grand piano. Both men were leaning very close to each other when the waiter sauntered over and spoke in French. Greg could only pick out a few words, but luckily Mycroft replied before Greg could make a bloody fool of himself. As soon as the waiter left, Mycroft turned his intelligent eye on Greg again.

"How much do you know about me?" Greg dared to ask. Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, tilting his head down mockingly.

"A great deal. I may or may not have spent a lunch or two looking over your files. However, I… well… I… I was overly glad you picked up the phone." Mycroft said.

"Why's that?"

"I was saved the trouble of attempting to strike up a flirtation with you the old fashioned way." Mycroft laughed again. Greg smiled, drunk on the sound of Mycroft's laughter. The rest of the dinner passed in comfortable silence, Greg contentedly eating whatever it was Mycroft had ordered them and Mycroft only ate half of his, looking down at his vest clad stomach in between mouthfuls. Greg furrowed his brows together but said nothing, electing to ignore it.

"That was probably the best first date I have ever had," Greg said while they waited for the car. As usual, Mycroft was the gentleman and held the door open for him. They settled into the warm confines of the compartment, this time side by side and much closer than the drive over.

"Could you um… would you like to come over for a drink?" Mycroft asked. Greg said yes so fast it shocked Mycroft for a moment. A refraction period was taken, and then they were off.

The drive was not awful, however it wasn't short. The house was large and in a very expensive neighborhood of London. The moon shone above them encouragingly as they walked into the house. Mycroft had the lights dimmed low, moonlight shining through the windows.

"The brandy is on the trolley so I'll make the drinks as soon as I get a fire started. Please, make yourself comfortable," Mycroft motioned to a place on a long white couch facing the grand fireplace. There was a red Persian rug covering the wood floor and a glass coffee table in the center. Mycroft divested himself of his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, bending down to turn on the gas, flames erupting from the bottom. Greg was slowly discovering there were many sides to Mycroft Holmes. There was Mycroft the flirt, the nervous lover, the diplomat, the older brother, and finally the relaxed, smiling, laughing Mycroft. Greg had seen all of them, and felt extremely privileged to have seen all of Mycroft's sides. Mycroft was now pouring amber liquid into two neat glasses and returned to the couch to sit beside Greg, an arm outstretched. Greg accepted the drink gladly and took a sip. It was a very good drink, burning the back of his throat, making his insides warm.

Liquid courage settled in their stomachs. Greg removed his coat and suit jacket as well, watching the fire blaze.

"This evening was the most enjoyable I've ever spent with another person." Mycroft said over his drink, fiddling with the glass nervously. He had now removed the waistcoat and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Now Mycroft didn't seem as immaculate and untouchable. Greg felt the itch to completely debauch the creature next to him; a creature that hardly ever let his guard down like this.

"Gregory, I don't believe I've ever been able to enjoy anyone's company as much as I enjoy yours." Mycroft said, placing his glass on the coffee table and turning to face the other man completely on the couch.

"Why me? Anyone on this planet and you choose me… Why?"

"Because you are fascinating. You are unique, inside and out. You have a rough side, yet are so gentle. You… I cannot find the words to describe it. Gregory," Mycroft said, getting incredibly close. Greg inhaled his scent deeply, forgetting that he was supposed to answer.

"Yes?" he breathed out.

"Can I kiss you?" Mycroft asked, shy and delicate. There he was- the nervous lover. He was tentative and kind.

"Thought you would never ask," Greg replied, pressing his lips to Mycroft's. Sparks flew between them, coursing all the way down to Lestrade's belly. He cradled Mycroft's round face with both hands and stroked his thumb along the cheek, to the ear, and down the jawline. White spots appeared behind Greg's vision when Mycroft's tongue begged for entrance, massaging his lower lip. Greg gladly obliged, deepening the kiss and the passion. Greg gently pushed Mycroft's body back into the couch, laying half over top of the ginger, never breaking the kiss. Unfortunately, the couch was not meant for two fully grown men making out like teenagers and they slipped off the side, hitting the plush rug with a groan.

"Is it possible that there is somewhere more comfortable we could go?" Greg asked between kisses. He wasn't exactly as young as he once was and neither was Mycroft.

"Upstairs," was all Mycroft had to say. Greg stood and in a romantic gesture, swept Mycroft into his arms bridal style. His face of utter confusion was comical and would have made Greg laugh had he not been concentrating on the many stairs.

"First door on the right," Mycroft said, directing Greg into a cavernous bedroom. In the center, a four poster bed was spread out lavishly, the sheets were black silk. The room was immaculate and reflected the man it belonged to; posh with just the right hint of mystery and class. Greg laid Mycroft out and clambered over top of him. He crushed his lips to Mycroft's fiercely, fighting the buttons of his shirt. Mycroft, noticing what was happening, stayed Greg's hand and sat up, fear written all over his face.

"My, what's wrong? Was it something I did?" Greg couldn't help the hurt that leeched into his tone. Mycroft shook his head and sat up, curling a hand around the back of Greg's neck.

"It isn't that, of course not. It's just, well, I'm rather round around the middle and-" Mycroft started. Greg pulled Mycroft's legs around his waist and laid him back onto the pillows.

"You don't have to be shy Mycroft. I think you are absolutely gorgeous. I noticed you staring down at your stomach at dinner. You only ate half of your food." Greg said, completing his journey down the line of buttons and pushing the shirt aside. His chest was pale and smooth, with only the slightest curve of his belly. He was lean still, a line of ginger hair traveled down beneath his waistband. Greg's favorite part was the freckles smattering his shoulders and upper chest. Greg mouthed kisses to Mycroft's chest then down just above the belly button. Mycroft was watching him intently for any signs of disgust. Instead, Greg worshipped the other man's milky body.

"As I suspected, you are completely and utterly gorgeous." Greg said. Mycroft laid his head back into the pillows in relief. Greg pulled his weight upwards, kneeling in front of Mycroft, making a show of unbuttoning his own shirt, and then tossed it to the ground beside them. Mycroft ran his hands up and down the DI's sides, the stark contrast of their skin tones overwhelmingly beautiful. The trousers and pants flew off much faster than the shirts, only pausing a moment to compliment Mycroft on his silky boxers that left very little to the imagination.

The night was tender and slow, Greg filling him up and relishing the little sounds Mycroft would try to hold back through clenched teeth.

"I want to hear you. Let me hear you," Greg whispered in his ear.

"Oh god Gregory. Ooh," Mycroft moaned quietly. Greg held him up from behind, one strong arm circling Mycroft's delicate waist.

"That's it baby. Let me hear you. Let me know how you feel," Greg encouraged. He loved Mycroft's voice. He liked it when Mycroft said his name like a prayer and when he laughed with Greg.

"Gregory… Gregory. Feels… it feels so good," Mycroft tried to form the words, but they escaped him like the sweat that rolled off their entwined bodies.

"Good baby. Oh my god you're tight. Jesus, I'm gonna…" Greg warned, a few more thrusts would be his end.

"As am I. Oh fuck," Mycroft groaned loudly, body bearing down and throbbing in time to his heartbeat. That pushed Greg over the edge, burying himself deep and shouting in surprise. They collapsed onto the bed together, breathing heavily and reeking of sex. Greg winced as he pulled out, the aftershocks ravishing his body. Mycroft turned to face Greg and pulled the covers over top of them both.

"Goodnight Gregory," Mycroft said, curling into Greg's side and resting his head onto the other man's strong chest.

"Good Morning Mycroft," Greg replied, kissing the top of the ginger's head and holding Mycroft tightly to him, never intending to let go.


	7. That is the End! Author's Note 2

**A/N: There will be a sequel my friends so do not fret! **


	8. Final Author's Note

**Hey! The new sequel to Goodnight Gregory, Good Morning Mycroft is up and already has a few chapters! It's called **_**Lovebites in the Morning, Lovebites for the Evening**_**. So, if you liked this fic, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE go follow the sequel and show me how much you ship it! Love you and talk to you soon! **


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